


Remain Nameless

by stpitbull



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:10:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stpitbull/pseuds/stpitbull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The myth of Cupid and Psyche set in the Mojave. And whichever character you're thinking the mystery visitor is: you're wrong. Unless you're like me and just mad obsessed with the minorest of characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The wind was howling something fierce, making the windowboards clatter as Simon put up cloth to keep the ambient light out. He didn't want to travel  _too_  far from the Strip, to avoid questions, and the bright lights coming off the Lucky 38 even reached these small ranch houses north of it. He made one more quick scan of the perimeter, and kicked sand into the campfire near the door. Made his way through the small house and crawled into bed.  
  
He made himself sleep in the Lucky 38 some nights, just for appearances. But he preferred not to. The visits never happened there, his guest not being permitted entrance. Simon would grant it in a second if he knew who his guest was.  
  
That was the final part in ruling out Boone or Arcade. He had been fairly certain it wasn't either of them for a while, and some small part of him had been disappointed -- his inner romantic quite liked the idea of his mystery lover being one of his brothers in arms. The disappointment faded quickly, though, when he realized the new power he had. The visits had always been random, so much so that Simon couldn't parse any kind of pattern. Now, when he was working in the Strip, in the surrounding area, the visits were almost on his terms. It meant a few lonely nights in one of these abandoned ranch houses, when the stranger didn't come, but it was worth it.  
  
He heard the door opening with the roar of wind, closing, listened in the darkness to the soft shuffling of footsteps. Felt a hand, cold from the desert night, settle gently on his face. He took it in his hands, rubbing his thumb over the thick burn scar that ran from the bottom joint of the thumb down to the wrist, and pressed its fingertips into the gnarled, knotted scar on his forehead, near his hairline. Their own silent hello. He lay back, listening to the shuffle of clothes, the rustle of them hitting the floor and felt the warm, familiar weight settle on top of him, gently wrapping his face in two anonymous hands and kissing him deeply. Simon knew how the stranger smelled. How he tasted. He could almost guess at the cut of his hair, from running his own fingers through it. He knew the pattern of his scars. And that he would always let loose this low, restrained groan almost like a purr when Simon's fingertips slipped under his shirt to brush circles against his lower back, feeling the dip of his spine. But Simon didn't know his name, or face.  
  
The first night, he hadn't had any idea what was going on. He had been traveling alone, found an abandoned house with a decent bed and no holes blown in it. And he had been exhausted, in that bone-deep kind of way that was so pervasive that he'd initially thought he may have been dreaming when he heard the cautious pad of light footsteps.

He'd just lay still, didn't know why to this day. Didn't jump when he felt a sudden warm, soft touch, a hand threading slowly through his hair. Fingertips delicately traveled the contours of his face, the pad of a thumb brushing over his cheekbone, his lips, catching on day-old stubble. Hands wandered down the expanse of his chest. Slowly. Reverently. It had been ages since anyone had touched him beyond a quick, sloppy hook-up behind a bar, and he couldn't be entirely sure he'd ever been touched quite like  _that_ . He could hardly be blamed for arching into the contact.  
  
The hands froze, and leapt off his body like they had been burned. Simon could hear the first shuffle of retreating footsteps. Instantly he grasped in the dark, landing on an arm, firmly muscled and hairy. The intruder paused, and Simon groped down the arm until he found a hand. Felt it in his fingers, the meaty bowl of the palm, the thick flat of the thumb, that strange craggy burn scar he would grow to learn every dip and pucker of in the months to come. He tugged on the hand, placed it over his heart. Silently asking the stranger to feel the way it was racing.  
  
It raced faster as he felt the sag of the mattress as the weight of another body was added to it. As another's heat joined his own. As lips tenderly brushed against his.  
  
It had been clumsy, at first, trying to maneuver around one another in the complete darkness. But the hot brush of skin against skin, of hands and mouth slowly exploring his body, of thick spitslicked fingers pressing into him, working him open,  _everything_ , all of it was intensified in a way Simon hadn't even known existed. Something about not having his vision, about the near complete silence, making everything feel  _heightened_ , he figured later. He wasn't exactly searching for explanations for his overwhelming ecstasy when he was wrapped up in a pair of strong arms, his legs wrapped around his visitor's waist as he completely surrendered, letting go of any reservations he may have had left as the stranger rocked into him, kissing at his throat, his jaw, his cheekbones.  
  
After they had both come the stranger just stayed for a moment, still wrapped up in him, kissing him languidly. Simon had reached for his wrist again as he felt the weight leaving the mattress, and said the only words they'd shared: "Please don't go."  
  
The stranger's hands navigated up his arms, his shoulders, his neck, to cup his face, leaned in and kissed him soundly, first his lips, then his forehead, right by the knotted scar at his hairline. Like a promise. And then he left.  
  
He returned, of course, somehow finding Simon's camp a couple of times a week. Sometimes more. And Simon was always aching for him, his heart racing like the first time every time he heard soft footsteps approach wherever he had made his bed.  
  
It wasn't healthy. But he had been shot in the head over a fucking poker chip. Had been dragged into a war he had no stake in. Spent each day sacrificing his body for strangers. He didn't know from healthy anymore.  
  
The visitor had even come a few times when Simon's companions were sleeping nearby. He remembered the first time he had heard the footsteps, done the ritual of the scars, and whispered as hands ran down his body, "We're not alone." If his lover had heard, he didn't care, gently but insistently rolling the courier onto his belly, and so Simon buried his face into his pillow, covered his mouth with his hand and did his best to muffle his panting as his visitor spread him open and lapped at his hole. He remembered letting out a dangerously audible whine as he came into his hand and felt his fingers pulled into a searing hot mouth, sucked clean. Being gently tugged up until he was sitting at the edge of his bed, his hands being led to a button, the front catch of a pair of trouser, the barest brush of his fingers feeling the hard bulge underneath. Worrying that even the sounds of him sucking were going to wake someone up, and then losing himself in the feeling of hands in his hair, of the heady taste of the stranger, of memorizing his smell. The sound of his barely stifled moans.

The stranger had only spoken once, just once, when Simon had been particularly ungainly after a long, frustrating day and kept rushing. His lover had given a sort of breathless chuckle, lightly pinned his wrists against his head and murmured, "Relax, baby, just let me take care of you," in a tight whisper so quiet that Simon couldn't discern any of its characteristics, couldn't even begin to place it. But the way it had wormed into his heart, shot warmth through his limbs and replayed in his head for days... Well. Better not revisit that whole "unhealthy" thing.   
  
Because he couldn't really care less at this point about the  _who_ 's and  _how_ 's. It could be anyone, a goddamn Legionnaire and he would still be grateful to him. Life was not getting easier. Even with his big home base, his evergrowing personal army, more and more recognition for the sacrifices he was making, the absurd suicide missions he was taking, these nights were the brightest spot in his life. These nights in his lover's arms, being pleasured within and inch of his life, completely tended to, kissed tenderly like he mattered.   
  
He was beyond trying to talk himself out of feeling something like love in the stranger's touch. Was done trying to tell himself that the stranger was probably just looking for an easy lay. Those thoughts, all practical pessimism, had been shot out the window with the visits that had called for nigh-treacherous travel. The times Simon had been in the middle of a firefight and seen an enemy fall to a bullet that neither he nor his companions could have shot. The occasion that he had heard a battle in the distance and taken a turn in the road that revealed two freshly-killed Legionnaires, ambush thwarted before it had begun, no other fighter in sight.   
  
Simon didn't have a name for it, and that didn't matter. He was certain these encounters meant just as much to the stranger as they did to himself.   
  
And then they stopped happening.


	2. Chapter 2

A burst of wind carried across the desert ground, kicking up dust and whipping through Simon's hair as he pressed forward. Maybe he should have left a note, he was reflecting now. Left with more than a short farewell to Arcade, the only other conscious person in the Lucky 38 at the ungodly hour of his departure. But he was at a loss for how to explain why he was setting out, or where he was going, and why he needed to go alone. Why there was only one person he wanted to see right now.   
  
And in truth, he had very little by way of ideas on how to proceed. His current notion was to go to all of his regular haunts, the places he usually stopped along the road, knew the most people at. It wasn't much, but it was as good a plan as any. If nothing else, maybe seeing so many people he knew and liked would help ease some of the lonely ache that had been building in his chest over his past several untouched nights.   
  
The road was sacred to him. His line of work was little more than an excuse to travel constantly. The wastes with all its paths, both defined and hidden, held a sort of wisdom that had a way of knitting itself into Simon's bones. He hoped it would provide him with some kind of clarity, even if it didn't lead him to his stranger.   
  
He headed south of Freeside, stopping at Camp McCarran. He navigated the main courtyard, the tarmac, the concourse. He sat in the mess listening to his overflowing tableful of eager soldiers exchanging lively stories and politely pretended it wasn't just for his amusement, all of them good-naturedly warring for his attentions under the guise of a sudden base-wide attack of nostalgia. He sat in the ground floor office with Hsu, who welcomed his offered distraction of peaceful, companionable conversation. "You look exhausted," Simon told him sympathetically.   
  
"Speak for yourself," Hsu replied with a sort of sad kindness.   
  
He lost two rounds of Caravan to Betsy and won one against Bitter-Root. He took a hit from Boyd's hip flask, met her private wink with a secret smile. And then he moved on.

He tried to camp but was unsuccessful. His body felt like pebbles had settled under his skin, and his chest swelled ferociously at any soft sound that could have been mistaken for footsteps. He walked on.   
  
He headed west to Red Rock Canyon, a definite candidate for the most unlikely location to become his most treasured sanctuary. There was no mistaking where you stood with the Great Khans, nothing by way of insincere politeness or diplomatic dishonesty. It made their affections mean more as they rang so honest, the hospitality they gave him more of a comfort. And it meant his visits were frequent, most of the Khans greeting him like an old friend. So different from McCarran. He stopped by the longhouse and paid his respects to Papa, pride building in him as the man greeted him with guileless warmth, knowing it had been earned. He made a stop in Regis' tent and wound up spending the rest of the morning and bulk of the afternoon in there, the two men getting lost in discussions of the philosophy Regis had recently excavated from some old book, as they often did. He made his way to take a seat at the campfire as evening began to descend, settled next to Anders as he always did. Their friendship ran so deep after their joined trek back from Cottonwood Cove that they rarely even needed words, even though the conversation was too good to skip. More Khans joined the fire, the smells of cooking wafting through the evening air. Jack approached from behind and greeted him with a sneak attack hug around his shoulders, kneeling by him and grinning with unshadowed fondness.    
  
"Shit, you look exhausted," he said, catching the courier's chin in his calloused fingertips. "I brewed up some tequila the other night. You're having a bottle with your steak, brother -- that'll get you to sleep."   
  
He did sleep, on a woven rug under the stars, filled with meat and drink and warmth. He dreamed of somewhere green, sunshine sparking hot between leafy branches and the feeling of grass on his bare back, of scarred hands on his body and a face he couldn't see, too overwhelmed by the light above. He awoke to the thin ribbon in the horizon of pink and orange chasing away the expanse of dark inky blue, and walked on.    
  
He stopped in Goodsprings for lunch. Trudy asked him to stay the night but he politely told her that he had to get on. He had spent too many months on someone else's schedule, traveling for someone else's reason's and then settling in the gilded cage that was the Lucky 38, and now his feet longed to feel the Mojave under them, to eat up the road and drink in its secrets.   
  
He spent the day walking, reaching Novac right as Manny's shift was ending, walking into the courtyard just as the sniper was descending the steps from the dino, a broad grin spreading across his face. "What's goin' on, man?" he greeted Simon warmly, pulling him into a quick, back-clapping hug. "You flyin' solo tonight?"   
  
They swung by the McBrides to buy a pair of steaks, and soon Simon was seated on Manny's bed and chucking off his boots while Manny fried cooked. "So what's the grand adventure this time?" Manny asked over the sizzle and pop of the steaks in a pan.   
  
"Just wandering," Simon answered. Manny offered him a beer, which he cracked open and took a swig from before saying, "Looking for someone."   
  
"Anyone I know?"   
  
Simon shook his head. "Couldn't say."

They ate, the meal stretching over an hour. Manny was good at talking, and Simon liked listening. Time had a way of disappearing, of not mattering, and that was a feeling Simon welcomed. No schedule, no delivery, no one who needed saving. He didn't even know where he'd be walking tomorrow. Off to a corner he hadn't reached yet, he supposed.   
  
Manny rinsed the dishes and tossed the empty beer bottles in a small trash bin, and settled next to Simon where he was sitting on the bed. Cautiously slid a hand on his thigh in a silent question.   
  
"Sorry," Simon said, "not this time."   
  
Manny removed his hand with no complaint. "Same guy you were seeing last time?" he asked, voice still as casual as it had been during dinner.   
  
"Yeah," Simon said.   
  
"Must be working out well, then."   
  
Simon worked at the knuckles of his left hand. "I hope so."   
  
He didn't want to spend the night in his room -- too restless to spend time in what had always been little more than a glorified supply shed for him. He walked to Camp Forlorn Hope, still struck by how different it looked from the first time he had seen it, back when it was a skeletal place that looked like a graveyard waiting to happen, smelled like fear and death. It was by no means as comfortable as McCarran now, but it was substantially improved, and full of people who were always happy to see him. Another impromptu congress assembled around him at the campfire, the night owls and guards on their breaks. Hayes was the one with the hidden flask here -- Simon could name "the one with the flask" at every NCR post he had made enough of an impression on -- and shared a swig with him. He slipped into the medical tent where Dr. Richards was working far later than he should, on nothing more important than reorganizing old reports, weariness in his shoulders but still lucid enough to provide Simon with the enjoyable flirtatious banter that made no promises and no demands. The tent was empty save for the two of them, and Richards offered him one of the cots for the night. Or, he playfully offered, Simon could just join him in his tent, and Simon met him gamely, even as the doctor looked so bone-tired that Simon wouldn't take him up on it even if he weren't spoken for.   
  
He hadn't realized that it was morning when he fell asleep, and he slept hard, emerging from the tent as the late afternoon haze was scattering and evening was settling in. He walked on.   
  
He headed north, not really certain where he would go next. Just opting to see where the road would take him. Night had well and truly set in and he was far from any of the settlements he knew about when two patrolling NCR soldiers rushed towards him.   
  
"Simon?" one of them said. "Simon. Thank god you're okay."   
  
"What do you mean?" Simon asked, genuinely confused.   
  
"We were worried he had gotten to you first," the other soldier said, shoulders sagging with relief.   
  
"Wait, who?"   
  
"You were being trailed," the first one informed him. "We saw it while we were patrolling a bit further south -- he's been following you for a while."   
  
Simon's heart dropped into his stomach, and he didn't know how to respond, blinking at the two of them dumbly.   
  
"We lost track of you a little ways back, and he must've to, 'cause he was ahead on the trail. C'mon."   
  
The soldiers began walking and Simon followed, asking, "Come on where?"   
  
"We got the bastard," the second soldier said. "You won't believe who we just saved you from, brother."


	3. Chapter 3

He followed the soldiers to a small, long-abandoned house nestled in the trees, little more than a shack. "He's in there," one of the soldiers said.   
  
" _Who's_  in there?" Simon pleaded, desperation rising in his chest.   
  
"That one Legion bastard -- the one you reported being behind Nipton," the other soldier replied. "Wooly whatever."   
  
Simon's stomach went cold. Oh, god. He had thought he'd be okay with it being a member of the Legion, back when the thought was just a purely hypothetical scenario. But he remembered Vulpes. Remembered his abject cruelty, the atrocity he committed on Nipton that infected Simon's nightmares. Simon was an empathetic creature by nature -- he couldn't help but imagine the utter fear all of the ticket-holders had to have felt awaiting their fates, had felt it as strong as though he were there when he listened to the frumentarius proudly describe the slaughter he had orchestrated.   
  
No. No, this couldn't be right. He had honestly thought that he'd welcome whomever his visitor was with an open heart when his search was over. But he had never expected this. He hadn't expected to find he had given his body over so eagerly to the man who devised that horrific lottery.   
  
"He's in there, 'sleeping'," the first soldier was saying, handing Simon a massive blade. Simon gripped it in cold fingers. "We know what you saw him do. Figured you'd want the honor. Orders are for any NCR soldier to bring him in rather than kill him, but you ain't technically NCR. Now's your chance -- you can take him out right now."   
  
"Just don't turn on a light," the other warned. "He's in good shape, prolly won't stay out for long. It's too much of a risk to assume the light won't wake him up. You can judge by the shadows where he is -- just go and plunge that sucker in the bastard's heart."   
  
Numbly, Simon made his way into the shack, closing the door behind him, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim ambient light, forms of shadow taking on layers.   
  
His heart was suddenly hammering. stomach churning. He took a few careful steps towards a form he could make out on a bed, all varying shades of dark gray that only barely registered as a man. And a nightstand nearby, with a lamp.   
  
He looked behind him at the door, saw that the seal of it was tight. No light would escape to the front of the shack. He knew the soldiers' warning was in the right mind, but it couldn't be this way. Simon had to look at his face, just once, as though in some wild moment of hope he could feel something other than disgust for the beast he so heavily associated with fear and hate. As though some instinct bidden by the wisdom of his body would kick in, explain to him how someone who had given him such cherished nights could reside alongside someone so soullessly cruel. Simon flicked on the lamp, holding the knife at the ready. His eyes adjusted to the light and began to discern the form resting on the bed. His heart leapt into his throat.   
  
He lowered the blade, tucked it into his boot. Tenderly he reached for the sleeper's left hand, ran his fingertips over the burn scar. He had imagined it would be some vivid color that stood out against his lover's flesh, but it was just a shade lighter than his skin. His warm skin, in Simon's hand, skin he couldn't help pressing his lips to as he began to shake from relief. From joy.   
  
All those times he had sat next to him at the campfire, all those swigs of whiskey from a shared bottle, one long trek battling at each other's sides from one end of the Mojave to the other, and he never would have guessed.   
  
Anders groaned softly, stretching slightly on the bed and turning towards the touch. Simon descended upon him without thought, kissing him softly, breath coming in ragged and wet. Anders slowly crawled towards consciousness, some instinct bidden by the wisdom of his body kicking in, hands reaching up to thread in Simon's hair as he met the kiss, parting his lips and making Simon moan softly as their tongues brushed together.

And then Anders' mind caught up, eyes growing wide and he was pushing Simon back, clambering to his feet with his battlehoned grace dimmed. "What are you--  _Simon_ , how did you even--" He scrubbed both hands over his face, looking a little beyond panicked. "Shit,  _shit_ , I've gotta go--"   
  
He tried to push past the courier but Simon gripped him by the shoulders. "Don't," he said.   
  
" _Please_ ," Anders whispered harshly, eyes frantic and pleading. "You don't understand, I have to--"   
  
"There are two soldiers out there," Simon told him in urgent, hushed tones. "They were trying to trick me into murdering you. If you run out, they'll kill you."   
  
Anders sucked in a deep, steadying breath. "Soldiers, huh? Guess that explains the knot in the back of my head." He stepped back and brought his palms together, pressing them against his lips as he paced the room like a caged animal, mind churning. "Okay," he said after a crossing the room twice. "Okay, here's what we're gonna do."   
  
Moments later Simon stepped out of the shack door, eyes on the ground. "It's done," he said solemnly to the soldiers.   
  
"Good man," one of them said, grinning broadly.   
  
"I, ah..." Simon sighed heavily. "I left the knife in him. Sorry, just..."   
  
"No need to explain," the other soldier said. "He was a real bastard. You've done a hell of a turn for the NCR, kid."   
  
"Yeah," Simon said in a disconnected voice. "Yeah."   
  
He turned to walk away, heading for the treeline and heard the two men enter the shack. Heard fat screaming bursts of gunfire, and silence. He ran back to the shack, heart singing in fresh relief when he saw the plan had worked, the men now corpses on the ground.   
  
Anders was crouched, inspecting the bodies. "No dog tags," he said, patting through the pockets. He tucked his hand into one and tugged out a handful of denarius coins. "That explains it then. Legionnaires."   
  
Simon shook his head. "I carry those coins, doesn't make me Legion."   
  
"Naw, this is stolen armor, look-- the places where they patched it up are all fresh-looking." Anders rose, satisfied with this explanation.   
  
Simon was less convinced. "That's-- No. Why Legion? I know why they want me dead, but why you?"   
  
Anders shrugged, hands on his hips. "Cottonwood Cove. They don't take kindly to men disappearing from crosses."   
  
With all that excitement over, the two men were only left with each other, Anders' expression settling into something raw and withheld as he looked at Simon. The mention of how they came to meet was doing little to settle the aching twist in Simon's belly.   
  
Anders had been in awful shape when Simon got him down from that cross, limping, dehydrated, bruises yellowed and lingeringly tender, lacerations ranging from "barely healed" to "festering". Ever a Khan, as Simon would learn, he insisted at first on making his way back to Red Rock, hobbling pathetically onto the road and brushing off Simon's pleas for him to just sit still and accept medical treatment.   
  
So Simon had followed.   
  
They were well past Camp Searchlight when Anders finally fell, caved and accepted all that Simon was offering him. They found somewhere vaguely safe to make camp, Anders guzzling water as Simon tended to his wounds, medicating everything to the best of his abilities, keeping him comfortable. He felt the first odd surge of affection for the Khan at the truly comical face he pulled when Simon served him his dinner. "This... this looks  _disgusting_ , make me a steak."   
  
Simon shook his head. "You're in a state of extreme dehydration and water just isn't gonna cut it. We need to replenish your electrolytes--"   
  
"My what now?"   
  
Simon had sighed, shoving the bowl at him again. "Things that make your body work. This is the best I can come up with."   
  
Anders resolutely had not accepted the bowl, staring at Simon with the hard gaze of a man being denied steak. "Tell me what's in it."   
  
"You really don't want that."   
  
"Tell me what the fuck is in this disgusting mash."   
  
"Banana yucca, potatoes, and beans."   
  
Anders tried to gag for effect but wound up actually gagging in his sorry state.

Simon gave his very best condescending sigh. "I assumed you'd want to feed yourself, but if you're too weak to handle a spoon then I'll take care of you."   
  
"Oh,  _screw you_ , I can handle a spoon," Anders had said petulantly, taking the bowl and beginning to eat before it struck him that he had been manipulated. "You're crafty," was all he said. "I'll give you that."   
  
The journey back to Red Rock had taken much longer than it would have normally, the pair of them making frequent stops at Simon's insistence (and to Anders' great protest), Simon insisting on short days and plenty of rest for the Khan, Simon selling all of his precious Nuka-Colas in favor of stocking up on purified water at every merchant who had it to sell. It didn't help that Anders kept stressing his still-healing wounds by joining Simon in combat, helping him gun down anything from raiders and geckos to Fiends and Simon's weekly batch of Legion assassins. "Damn," Anders had said when he saw the level of men approaching them with weapons drawn, "you're popular."   
  
Simon sighed sharply. "That one's gonna yell at me before the battle starts. They always yell the same goddamn thing before the battle starts. Like it's somehow slipped my mind that Caesar hates my ass."   
  
He remembered the night his respect for Anders was solidified, when he inspected one of the nastier wounds on his leg that just would not heal. "I hate to say it," Simon had murmured, the two men softly illuminated by the amber light of the campfire, "but what I've been doing just isn't cutting it. It's gonna turn gangrenous before long."   
  
"Gangrene means I lose the leg, Sunshine," Anders had said through grit teeth. He hadn't been a fan of Simon's cautious methods, but he had accepted them. Oddly enough, he had been at his most resentful only when Simon insisted on shaving his ridiculous mustache to treat a nasty wound on his upper lip that was dangerously close to infecting his sinuses. Anders had groused seemingly endlessly, constantly petting his face for the rest of the trip (no -- until, Simon reflected presently, he had pointed out that Anders looked better without it, and he hadn't yet grown it back). But he had accepted it, like every other call Simon had made. "You're the smart one. You know what you're doing.  _Shit_ , I accept that I'd probably be dead without you by now. So come up with something."   
  
Simon had looked him dead in the eye. "It's gonna hurt."   
  
Anders tilted his chin up in response, a firm set to his jaw. "I can take it."   
  
Anders had nodded once at the suggested treatment. Faced the pain with little more than deep breathing. He hadn't even cried out as Simon pressed the whitehot gun barrel fresh from the fire onto his skin, cauterizing the wound.   
  
He had seemed genuinely confused when Simon apologized for the brutal treatment later on the final stretch of the journey, Red Rock within sight. "You saved my leg, Sunshine," Anders said. "That's worth a little pain. Plus that scar's guaranteeing me a great story."   
  
"Seems like most people would've at least  _flinched_  when I told them what the treatment was gonna be," Simon had said.   
  
Anders had just shrugged, eyes on the road. "Khans ain't most people." He was quiet for a moment, then said, "You ain't most people, either."   
  
Simon had immediately taken a liking to the Khans, one that would last. He had nurtured friendships at the camp in Red Rock Canyon, accidentally developed a good reputation among them. But as much as he grew to enjoy the company of so many in the camp, his friendship with Anders had always been made of different stuff. He just figured that two men couldn't go through what they had gone through together without their relationship being forged into something stronger. And now, looking at him in the dim yellow light of the shack, he didn't even begin to wish for someone handsomer, someone more sophisticated. He could not have wished for anyone different.

Anders didn't resist until after Simon was in his arms, breaking their heated kiss and holding him back by the shoulders. " _Wait_ . Please. I'm sorry, but we-- I can't. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry but I just have to go."   
  
He stepped around Simon and made for the door. The courier called after him. "If you really don't think I'll come for you, then you don't know me at all."   
  
Anders stopped, turned, looked at him with something raw and aching in his gaze. "I know every inch of you," Anders whispered reverently. "And please,  _please_ , that's why I need you to leave this alone. There was a reason I stopped finding you."   
  
Simon took a step towards him. "Then why did you come tonight? Why were you following me, if you're so done with me?"   
  
Anders made a helpless gesture. "Because I just--" He sighed heavily, raked a hand through his short hair. The sight of it brought a memory of Simon running his own hands through that bristly hair, and shot a lurch of heat straight to his gut. Anders met his eyes. "I guess I just wanted to say goodbye."   
  
Simon moved towards him, and skirted his fingertips up Anders' defined arm. Anders shuddered and grasped his hand. "But I can't. The way I wanted to, I mean-- this is goodbye, right here. This was a sign, I really  _am_  supposed to be leaving you alone. Diane was right. I-- I have to go."   
  
He pushed past Simon and through the door, the courier following. "Diane? What does she have to do with this?"   
  
There were noises off in the darkness, making both men turn their heads. As the sounds grew closer, Anders took Simon's face in his hands, those familiar hands that sent sparks skittering across his skin, and kissed him. "I'm sorry," he whispered against Simon's lips. "I'm so sorry. Please just let me go."   
  
He turned and ran, not looking back as Simon called for him to wait. The sounds of people approaching grew closer, and two NCR troopers came into the light, one of them a woman that Simon actually knew by name. They unwittingly stayed his chase, as he explained the disguised Legionnaires, as the troopers told him how two soldiers from their station had in fact gone missing, and the men in these uniforms definitely weren't them. Simon tried to appear like he was still there. Like he wasn't already out of there, crossing the Mojave, searching for Anders.


	4. Chapter 4

Days passed. Simon walked. He moved quietly through Red Rock in the hour before the sun would rise, while most of the camp was sleeping and the night watch paid him little mind. Anders was not there.    
  
He was staring into the slowchurning embers of a dying campfire when his heart raced, instinctively reacting to the approach of soft footsteps before his mind could process them. He turned slightly, saw Regis emerged from his tent and walking to him with uncharacteristic sympathy in his eyes. "Hey," he greeted quietly. Simon nodded to him, arms wrapped around himself. "You're here about Anders."   
  
Simon looked at him. At least there was no need for awkward expositions. "Should I expect more people to know?"   
  
Regis shrugged, standing by him and looking in the fire. "Diane only told a few of us the ultimatum. Myself, Jack, Melissa. Jessup, I think, but he didn't particularly care."   
  
"The ultimatum?"   
  
"The one she had given Anders," Regis explained gently. Sympathy registered uncomfortably on his proud face, an unusual breed of sad undertone to his quiet dignity. "It was brutal. For a while there it looked like they were going to settle it in the ring. Then they duked it out privately and she just... won. Neither of them would tell us why, but she won."   
  
Simon looked back at the fire, chest growing oddly tight. "I just... Why? Why is she against us being together?"   
  
"That's not a question I can answer," Regis said simply. He looked at Simon until the courier met his eyes. "Can I ask you something?"   
  
"Of course."   
  
"Are you serious about this? None of us knew about the whole thing with you and Anders-- I mean, it makes sense when I think about it but... Is this the real deal between you two?"   
  
That was the question that had been on Simon's mind ever since he started this journey. The truth was that none of his postulating and theorizing about what he would do when he found his visitor, discovered his identity and whether he was friend or enemy or real stranger,  _none_  of that had prepared him for the moment when he saw the scar on Anders' left hand. He tried to dissect and decontextualize his feelings during these past few days of searching since, tried to intellectualize the whole ordeal. Because he and Anders were friends, of course, friends who had been forged in an experience unmatched by any other in Simon's personal history. They got along famously. They never lacked for companionable connection, even if it was a simple pass of a bottle. But this reasonable approach had no place in the primal surge Simon felt when he realized what they had really been sharing, and the way his soul was immediately set on him. Like some untappable part of him had realized he had been looking for Anders long, long before he'd taken him down from that cross.   
  
"Yes," he distilled his answer for Regis.   
  
Regis was silent, watching the fire beside him, before resting a big hand on his shoulder. "Go talk to her," he said. "To Diane. She's a reasonable woman. She'll be straight with you."   
  
The camp was slowly waking up around them, Khans slowly crawling out of tents and joining them around the freshly-stoked fire by the longhouse, slow buzzes of quiet conversation mixing with the smells of breakfast cooking in the air. None seemed to have the same new trepidation around Simon as Regis had, clapping him on the shoulder with sleep-addled grumbled greetings. Simon sat by the fire as the sun rose, eating thin corn cakes drizzled in sweet syrup and slivers of fried gecko, still next to Regis, the two of them passing one of Jack's breakfast beers back and forth.   
  
"You really think she'll tell me?" Simon asked when the sun was hot on his shoulders.   
  
Regis looked at him. "She's an honest person," he said after a moment of thought. "But she hasn't maintained our position out here by being nice. Keep that in mind." Simon nodded, and made to rise when Regis' low voice momentarily anchored him. "Khans don't love lightly. Never have. We fall in love like a magnum blast to the heart and tend to stay that way for good. You need to remember that."

Diane was going over crudely scrawled manifests in one of the lab trailers, absorbed in her work and making adjustments in her own neat handwriting. She glanced up when Simon knocked on metal, looked back down at her manifest, crossed something off and set it down. "Had a feeling you'd be around," she said easily. She turned and crossed her arms. "You're here about Anders."   
  
"I'm here about you," Simon said, stepping into the trailer. "About this ultimatum I'm hearing of."   
  
Diane sighed, the air of one dealing with a child. "Look, Simon -- I like you. You're a good kid, and you've done well by us. You've done well by  _me_ . But I'm gonna need you to let this go."   
  
"No."   
  
He had meant to say something far more eloquent, but that was what came out, unbidden and honest. Because with each step this was evolving beyond something as simple as lonely nights. He had always missed Anders when he was out on a run while Simon stayed at the camp, and today, it was an even more powerful feeling, burrowed inside his chest like some malevolent insect that had made itself a new home.   
  
"Did you tell him to stop seeing me?" Simon asked.   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Why? How is it any of your business?"   
  
There was that hard set to her eyes that Simon had always respected, a foe he didn't need. "Do you know how many jobs a runner of mine needs to pull off per month to keep us comfortable?" she said evenly. "And right now,  _this_  qualifies as comfortable,  _this_  shithole we've tried to make our home, forcing us to seek outside help, fucking up our self-sufficiency --  _this_  is the comfortable I'm talking about. It doesn't just happen. It takes  _work_ . So when one of my best runners is taking twice, maybe three times as long to get a job done because he wants snuggle time with his  _boyfriend_ ? When he's going to places he has no business going to, when he's pissing off the Legion? When we're falling behind because of your precious little rendezvous? I'd say that's my business."   
  
She took a heavy breath, and said, "Look, it's... I know you get it. We're Khans. We're survivors. And to survive, you have to know when to drop weight that's slowing you down. It's nothing personal against you. It's just business."   
  
"We can work that out," Simon said. "If we just  _talk_ \--"   
  
"No," Diane said resolutely. "We've had enough  _talking_ , the thing to do now is just to let this go."   
  
"Well, I can't do that."   
  
"You said you don't believe in 'can't'."   
  
"Then won't."   
  
Diane pinched the bridge of her nose. "I had a feeling you wouldn't."   
  
"Will you tell me where Anders is?"   
  
Diane looked at him, and was quiet for a beat. "Out on a run."   
  
"More specifically."   
  
Diane leaned back on her heel, her eyes taking on that thoughtful gleam Simon had only been privileged enough to witness a couple of times. When her mind was becoming numbers and dates, measurements and roadlines. "Okay," she said. "Tell you what. You do something for me, and I'll tell you."   
  
"I feel like we've been down this road before," Simon said, "but sure. Just tell me what to do and I'll do it."   
  
Diane nodded. "Right. Good. A little north of here, back in the mountains near that super mutant settlement, there's a shack that's brimming with supplies we could use. Problem is, the place is a wreck. Overloaded, and it takes time to separate the useful stuff from the crap. And I just don't have the time or the men to sort it out here. If you can go there, sort it all out, and carry the useful bits back perfectly sorted by tomorrow morning, then we can talk."   
  
"That pass behind Jacobstown," Simon said, rolling it over in his mind. "You mean the place that's damn near overrun by cazadors."   
  
"We have a deal," Diane said, turning back to her work. "It's up to you if you honor it."


End file.
